by Stella Riley
Kate had stopped listening. Very close to where Celia sat with her swains, the man called del Santi was speaking to Gervase, Lord Wroxton and seemingly making him twitch – which, considering what she’d been told in the garden, was not especially surprising.
Studying him in semi-profile, Kate absorbed the well-proportioned body, the flat plane of his back and the inherent grace of his posture. Then he turned slightly and she suddenly realised that the angel had not, as she had first thought, been created perfect – that his left shoulder was a fraction higher than his right, as if it had been dislocated at some time and allowed to atrophy. The flaw was slight and was almost disguised by the cut of his coat. Kate was just thinking that the imperfection did nothing to diminish his beauty when, without warning, he seemed to feel her gaze and turned to meet it. The midnight eyes looked directly into hers for a long, airless moment and then he stunned her with a slight, impassive bow of acknowledgement. For the first time in her life, Kate blushed and, infuriated by the fact, achieved a brusque curtsy and an expression cold enough to make hell freeze. Then, without waiting for a reaction, she turned back to Eden and Francis.
Of course they had both seen. Francis looked smugly indulgent and Eden, mildly hilarious. He said, ‘Friend of yours, Kate?’
She shrugged. ‘Ask Francis. He’s full of opinions.’
This worked. Francis liked to win his points, not be awarded them. He said provocatively, ‘I am, of course – but your secrets are safe with me.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Kate irritably, ‘for when I have any.’
‘Peace, children.’ Eden was used to their sparring. ‘What I want to know is why I feel I’ve seen that fellow before - when I’m fairly sure I haven’t.’
Kate looked up at him, grinning. ‘Oh – but you have.’
‘Yes? Where?’
‘Work it out for yourself. Or, if you can’t – ask Mother. She’s probably noticed it too.’
By the time they left Far Flamstead, however, Eden had forgotten the matter and spent the journey home discussing field-drainage with his father. And Dorothy, looking thoughtfully at Kate, finally said, ‘All right. I give in. If you want to send your excuses for tomorrow’s hawking party, I won’t say a word. Well?’
For a moment or two Kate looked faintly taken aback. Then, on a creditable note of indifference, she said, ‘Thank you. But I think I’ll persevere, after all. And I’d quite like to see Eden fly the falcon Francis is giving him for his birthday. Yes.’ She paused consideringly. ‘I think I’ll go.’
* * *
It was not a large cavalcade which Eden and Kate joined outside the mews at Far Flamstead next morning, most of the ladies and several of the gentlemen having baulked at the early start. But Francis was with it – and Celia, attended by Sir Hugo Verney; and even George Goring, despite the absence of Mistress Morton. So, too, was Signor del Santi – along with a colourful person whose exotic olive skin, scimitar-like nose and luxuriant black moustache paled into insignificance beside the ornately-sheathed but purposeful-looking knife that was thrust through his sash.
‘My God!’ murmured Eden in Kate’s ear. ‘Is it a groom, a body-guard or an assassin?’
‘Or all three. Perhaps it’s an Italian custom,’ suggested Kate. ‘Tom had better be careful.’
Tom Tripp, whose father was head-groom at Thorne Ash, continued to settle Jezebel on Eden’s wrist and grinned without looking up. He had gone birds-nesting with Eden and taught Kate to fire a pistol, so formality was neither necessary nor appropriate.
He said laconically, ‘So had he. He’s in a Christian country now – not foreign parts. And he’d better keep his nasty heathen knife to hisself.’
Kate laughed and Eden said gently, ‘I see. And you’ll be telling him that, will you?’
‘Aye – if needs be.’ Tom finished adjusting the jesses and stepped back. ‘She looks to be a lively ’un, Mr Eden. Best have a care wi’ her this morning.’
‘And every morning, I should think,’ said Francis, joining them. ‘Unnervingly unpredictable creatures, falcons. I can’t imagine why you like them so much – or why you,’ to Kate, ‘aren’t keeping a safe distance. Celia is. Like me, she’s just along for the ride. Ah good. We seem to be off at last. Eden – that bird is fidgeting. It’s not going to do anything tiresome, is it?’
‘Only if you continue calling her ‘it’,’ responded Eden. ‘She’s a queen and she knows it. I really can’t thank you enough, you know.’
‘You can and you have. And before you become a bore, beloved, I shall depart and be sociable elsewhere. A bientôt, mes enfants!’
By the time they had left the tiny village of Farnborough behind them, Kate was tired of the sedate pace and pining for a gallop. She said so.
‘Go, then,’ said Eden. ‘Francis will probably come with you.’
‘No, thank you. On that showy slug he’s riding and with his determination to talk non-stop, he’ll never keep up with me.’
This, Eden conceded silently, was perfectly true. Kate might not be as visually delightful in her old rust-coloured riding-dress as was Celia in her expertly-cut scarlet, but she rode as well as most men and a good deal better than some. He said, ‘Take Tom, then. You may be glad of a chaperone.’
She laughed. ‘Me? Don’t be an idiot. I’m not nearly pretty enough.’ And, turning aside from the track, was off across the common in a swirl of dust.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ exclaimed George Goring. And with a hearty ‘View halloo!’ set off in energetic pursuit.
Eden watched him go and dissolved into silent laughter.
‘Nemesis taking up the gauntlet. Oh Kate.’
They did not meet again until the party halted on the heights of Avon Dassett and Eden said mischievously, ‘Well? Wishing you’d taken Tom after all?’
‘I did at first – but it was all right after he stopped talking to me as if I were Celia.’ She paused and gave a half-apologetic shrug. ‘Actually, I quite like him. He reminds me a bit of Uncle Ivo.’
Eden looked at his lordship and thought he detected a certain brittle glassiness.
‘You didn’t, by any chance, tell him so?’
‘Yes I did. Why not?’
‘Oh l-lord!’ came the unsteady reply. ‘Go away. I can’t stand it. And if I laugh any harder, Jezebel will do something t-tiresome.’
He waited until she had moved away and he could control his breathing. Then, with Tom Tripp at his side, he moved a little apart from the others and eased off the falcon’s hood. She blinked and started to absorb the world out of great, black eyes. Very gently, Eden released the soft leather straps from his fist and waited.
Jezebel was in no hurry. She shifted a little on the glove to the music of the small bells on her legs and continued her measured stare. Finally, she spread her wings and, with a power that jarred Eden’s shoulder, rose swiftly to circle the air above. Smiling – and completely unaware that Celia, having decided to make Sir Hugo work a little harder, had ridden over to join him – Eden shaded his eyes against the light and followed Jezebel’s progress as she climbed steadily up and up to become no more than a dark speck in the sky.
‘Isn’t she superb, Tom?’ he murmured.
‘Aye. Could be the best we’ve flown. Only you’d best start training her soon or --’
‘Do you think,’ interrupted Celia brightly, ‘that we might ride?’
Eden started and his eyes left the sky.
‘I’m sorry. Yes – of course. Shall we go to the beacon?’
‘Why not?’ Petulance vanished and she laughed. ‘Race me!’
She was a competent rider but no more than that and her mare was no match for Eden’s long-tailed grey. By the time she caught up with him, he had reined in and was facing her, smiling.
Flushed, breathless, and with her dark curls in charming disorder, she said plaintively, ‘A gentleman would have let me win.’
‘Oh?’ Eden contemplated the elusive dimple by her mouth. ‘And is
that what you like? To be patronised?’
‘That isn’t patronage. It’s gallantry.’
‘Is it?’ He appeared to consider the matter. ‘Don’t you find that rather confusing? For if I deceive you with courtesy, how are you to know when I’m sincere? And when I say you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen – how will you tell it from flattery?’
‘By intuition,’ began Celia firmly. And then. ‘Oh. Am I?’
Eden bent to adjust his stirrup and arose faintly flushed.
‘Knowing my graceless bluntness as you do, how can you doubt it? Shall we go? I’m not sure how easy it will be to bring Jezebel back … and I don’t suppose you’ll care for becoming food for the gossips.’
‘Oh Eden.’ She gave a gay, rippling laugh. ‘How can you be so ridiculous? I’m as safe with you as I would be with Francis.’
‘Of course. But there is a difference.’ His smile was slightly crooked. ‘I am not your brother.’
* * *
Kate watched Celia’s scarlet habit streaming in Eden’s wake and then looked away, giving a mental shrug. If Eden didn’t mind being picked up and put down as bait for Hugo Verney, it was entirely his own affair. Not that Kate had anything against Sir Hugo. He was pleasant enough company; not exactly stimulating, perhaps – but pleasant. Indeed, she was discovering that they all were, these witty, fashionable people she had expected to dislike. Mother had been right about that. Only Celia had not improved upon closer scrutiny; and someone really should have taught her not to jerk on her bridle like that. She was ruining that nice little mare’s mouth.
‘You find my servant interesting, Mistress Maxwell?’
The beautiful, faintly-accented voice sent a peculiar sensation slithering down Kate’s spine and caused her to snatch at her own reins before she turned to meet the impersonal gaze she’d hitherto encountered only a distance. It was no less unnerving close-to; more so, in fact. The long-lashed eyes were an incredibly deep cobalt – so dark that, on first glance, they appeared almost black. And, when added to his other perfections, they rendered the signor even more spectacularly good-looking than she’d first thought.
She swallowed and said weakly, ‘Your servant?’
The man known to London as the Italian assented with the merest suggestion of a nod.
‘Also myself, I suspect. But you were staring so hard at Selim just now that I felt impelled to ask why.’
Too late, Kate realised that she had indeed been staring – but not consciously. She also realised that he was never going to believe her if she said so. Recovering herself a little, she said, ‘Yes … well in England our grooms don’t commonly ride about armed to the teeth. Unless that pretty knife is a toy?’
‘Far from it.’ A wayward gleam appeared. ‘Would you care to inspect it?’
‘No thank you.’ She set her jaw and attacked. ‘You know my name. I’m surprised.’
His brows rose and he said with irritating urbanity, ‘Yes? But then, you also know mine, do you not? And, by now, probably a good deal more.’
Kate found that she was beginning to feel foolish and suspected that he meant her to. She had laughed at him in the garden – thus somewhat spoiling his little spell – and he was taking his fee. They were right about him. He wasn’t a gentleman. She said, ‘You take a lot for granted. But if the thought worries you, you should try to be less … theatrical.’
His mouth curled in a slow smile. ‘Very little worries me, Mistress.’
Kate believed him. She was also coming to see why he might find it handy to have his groom carry a knife.
‘That’s nice,’ she said coolly. ‘But, if that’s so, why are we having this conversation?’
‘You’re not enjoying it?’
‘Am I supposed to?’
‘Of course. I’m giving you the chance to decide precisely why I intrigue you.’
Kate shut her mouth and allowed her lungs time to re-inflate. Then she said sweetly, ‘There you go again. Making assumptions.’
‘I don’t think so.’ And with an apparent change of subject, ‘You were not enjoying yourself yesterday afternoon.’
Disconcerted, she said, ‘How do you know?’
‘You looked bored. And a little irritable.’ This time the smile was different; as provoking as it was attractive. ‘And then you sat up and looked neither.’
Kate flushed. ‘You think that was your doing?’
‘Wasn’t it?’
He really was outrageous. Outrageous, conceited, utterly infuriating … and right.
‘Not,’ she snapped, ‘in the way you obviously think.’
He said nothing but his expression of subtly amused disbelief made Kate want to hit him. She said, ‘If you must know, I wondered why your face seemed familiar. And then, of course, I realised. You look like Lucifer.’
Against all expectation, laughter flared in the dark eyes and he said, ‘You’re by no means the first person to think that … but not, usually, without some degree of prior acquaintance.’
‘I believe you,’ replied Kate. A second ago she’d wanted to hit him; now she was trying not to laugh. The switch was oddly exhilarating. ‘But I wasn’t actually calling you the devil incarnate.’
‘Should I be relieved?’
‘Perhaps. I was referring to our chapel ceiling at home. There’s an extravagant but rather beautiful painting of the Fall of Lucifer … and the resemblance to yourself is quite uncanny.’ She smiled cheerfully at him. ‘If you care to visit us some time, I’d be delighted to show it to you.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
THREE
At the end of August, Lord and Lady Wroxton’s glittering guests left Far Flamstead to go their various ways and life returned to normal. Kate gave up astrology in favour of sketching – a pastime which somehow led her to spend long hours in the chapel. And if she was plagued by the knowledge that the face she drew was never quite the face in the frescoed ceiling, she was able to put the matter into simple perspective. Who, after all, would not be utterly confounded by the discovery that even Lucifer could give way to genuinely amused laughter? And look so utterly devastating while he did so.
September came and went and then the first weeks of October. In Scotland, the Earl of Montrose enraged his fellow Covenanters by criticising their infringements of the King’s traditional rights and, in England, there was general rejoicing when the fleet allowed the Dutch to fire seventy-five Spanish ships in the Downs. Meanwhile, at Thorne Ash, the leaves turned rusty-brown and drifted from the trees while Eden spent a good deal of time riding with Celia Langley and a private concern festered in his mother’s heart.
‘Mary says she’s taking Celia to join Gervase and Francis at Court for Christmas,’ she told Richard, late one night. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It is if it will stop you worrying. Will it?’
‘I don’t know. It might.’ She stirred restlessly. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I actually disliked Celia – but I don’t. She’s charming enough in her way and lively and beautiful. Isn’t she?’
‘Absolutely. But you don’t want her for your daughter.’
‘No. Do you think I’m uncharitable?’
‘Not especially,’ sighed Richard. ‘Totally lacking in a sense of timing … but not uncharitable.’
A tremor of something that might have been laughter passed through the pliant body in his arms.
‘After all, it’s not her fault that she’s grown up self-absorbed and without a trace of empathy.’
‘Pot calling kettle,’ said her husband gloomily. ‘I must remember to warn Eden.’
This time there was no doubt at all about the laughter and Dorothy twined her arms about his neck.
‘I’m sorry. Are you tired of waiting?’
There was a long silence, then a soft, fractured sigh.
‘Aren’t you?’ asked Richard.
* * *
It would have surprised Dorothy to learn that Celia’s self-absorption shielded her neither from knowi
ng that Kate did not like her nor from noticing that, no matter how nice she was to Kate, all she ever got in return was a sort of off-hand courtesy. This rankled. Indeed, the only good thing to be said for it was that it kept Kate at home when she and Eden rode out together. But this – between the presence of Eden’s groom and the horrible bird Francis had given him – was small comfort.
Out on the vale below Avon Dassett, Celia surveyed Jezebel with resentful suspicion. Even when she was hooded, the falcon’s sheer size was worrying; but when, as now, Eden loosed the scarlet hood and removed it, the look in those huge, ringed eyes was frankly terrifying. It was a pity that, with the house-party over and Francis gone to London, these rides were her only distraction.
The bird was in the air now, an upward-soaring, swiftly diminishing shape. Celia wished it would forget to come back. Cutting across some observation that Tom Tripp was making, she said impatiently, ‘Oh – do come and ride, Eden. I’m chilled to the bone.’
He gave her a smile of rueful apology.
‘I’m sorry. I’m a thoughtless oaf. I don’t know why you bear with me.’
‘Neither do I.’ She turned her mare towards the track and set off ahead of him. ‘You certainly don’t deserve that I should.’
Eden brought the Nomad up beside her. ‘I know.’
She glanced at him between her lashes.
‘It appears to me that you often forget I’m here at all.’
‘Then you misjudge me,’ came the quiet reply. ‘I never forget you for a minute.’
This, decided Celia, was better. It might have been more gracefully put … but, for Eden, it really wasn’t bad. She smiled at him. ‘No?’
‘No. And I suspect that you’re very well aware of it.’
‘My goodness! Do you think I’ve a crystal ball, sir? Or that I’ve nothing better to do with my time than wonder about you?’
Eden perceived that this was his cue to say something suitably gallant but did not know how. Instead, he said simply, ‘No. I don’t imagine you think of me at all. But I wish that you would.’
Dimpling, she said, ‘Then you will have to try harder, won’t you?’